A Day In The Life Of A Broke-Ass, Touring Punk Band by Joseph Raszagal

A Day In The Life Of A Broke-Ass, Touring Punk Band

Joseph Raszagal, Clean, Joseph Raszagal, Punk, Real Life Location, Ska, Skunk

A Day In The Life Of A Broke-Ass, Touring Punk Band

A short story by Joseph Raszagal

"So, Florida... That's, like, seven hours away, right?" - Edward "Eddy" Pennington

"Dizzy, are you sure these directions are right?" Asks Matt for what must be the third time.

To be fair, the shirtless collie had followed the directions we'd printed out about as closely as possible and yet we STILL found ourselves coasting down Monmouth Street for the fifth time in the last half-hour. To be unfair, the fucker knows how hot I think he is, especially without a shirt to veil that washboard chest of his and the well-groomed layer of fluff covering it, but he disregarded that fact and decided to embark upon today's journey without precautionary upper garb anyway. As a result, my tent has been thoroughly pitched since sometime around 11:00 A.M., and Neil, the mountain lion in the very back of the van, has made a point of broadcasting this embarrassing fact on every frequency in the event that anybody amongst our ranks had somehow forgotten since our departure. To summarize things, no, nobody's forgotten. In fact, not only has the topic remained a relevant one throughout the entirety of today's drive, but everyone's also made sure to check back in with me every once in a while, about every 10 miles or so, to make sure that I'm still embarrassed. How NICE of them, the fucking jerk of a feline and his comedy cronies. Oh well, it's nothing that a few snide comments and a bit of shameless, uncalled-for flirting can't fix; we'll see how manly and tough the motherfucker looks after I clap his ass in front of all the truckers and country boys at the next gas station.

Hehe, yeah, he hates it when I do shit like that.

"Seriously, are you ABSOLUTELY sure that these directions are right?" Grumbles Matt again, thumping his head up against his seat's headrest in frustration. "Because I swear to God, if I see that same fucking K-Mart one more time."

Guess who's been driving for eleven straight hours, from Orlando, Florida to Covington, Kentucky?

"Given that we can't very well go back at this point and print out some new ones, they're about as RIGHT as we're going to get." I smirk. "So to answer your question, yes, they're pretty much spot on."

Scowling, he mutters, "You've filled me with confidence."

Sorry, pooch, but for the crime of torturing me sexually, whether or not it was your original intent, I sentence you to an entire day's worth of spiteful sarcasm.

"If he had things his way, he'd be filling you with something else." Comments Neil as he absently twirls one drumstick between his padded fingers. "Or maybe he'd prefer it the other way around, you filling him. I dunno, any thoughts on the subject, Jizzy?"

Scratching at my chin for a ponderous second, I answer, "Him mounting me, definitely. Oh, and clever word combo, by the way; I'm sure your English teachers are all proud of the monster that they helped to create."

"First of all, it's your fault for having a name that's just one letter shy of solid gold. Second of all, you're not supposed to just give up and agree with me; that's no fun. Argue with me, dammit!" Laughs the cat with a grin, tossing the stick back behind him. "Alright, now back to the topic at hand."

Turning his head to face us, the falcon in the passenger's side seat eagerly inquires, "Does it have anything to do with food? The Crave Case is running low and, to be honest, it's NOT what I crave. After the third one they all start tasting like cardboard; cardboard with a hint of onion."

"Eddy, you'll eat what we buy." Commands our irritated driver. "There's a Lee's Famous Chicken about 30 feet from the venue; that's where we're stopping before we head to the show."

"Aww, c'mon, that's like asking me to eat a hot bucket of crispy, breaded grease." Objects the bird. "This is inhumane treatment!"

"Whatever, Ed, you've been eating McDonald's, Burger King, Long John Silver's, and Taco Bell for more than a week, just like the rest of us." I say, writing him off with a shrug. "If you haven't had a heart attack yet, then a little more grease isn't going to kill you... yet."

"Yeah, BJ's right, so shut up and let the grown-ups talk." Smirks Neil, smacking the hungry avian in the back of the head with an empty White Castle box. "Now, as I was saying, back to the topic at hand. I didn't know that Google Maps could screw up."

"It can't." I snicker. "But Matt can."

"This is true." Muses Neil, quirking one eyebrow. "He CAN."

Rolling his eyes, the collie sneers, "Fuck you, Neil, I'd like to see you do better without a license. And fuck you, Dizzy, I offered you the wheel and you turned it down."

"Hey, what about me?" Laughs Jerry, the iguana to the right of me. "I turned it down too."

"Fine then, fuck you too." Barks Matt, bowing his head in exacerbation as we steadily coast to a stop in front of another red light. "Wait a sec, you know what? No. Because you asked for it, you deserve more than that, so fuck your trumpet too."

"Meh, as long as I'm not left out." Chuckles the adjacent reptile in between applications of valve oil to said trumpet. "Or should I say, as long as WE'RE not left out?"

"Ha ha ha, I hate you all." Groans the collie, gradually losing more and more of his sanity as our string of cute, little insults continues to bombard him.

Tussling the doggy's hair, I reply, "We love you too, Matt."

Popping up and over the back of my seat with a displeased grimace, our bunny bassist, Nick, shakes his head and dryly reports, "You know, it's really hard to zone out and nap back here with all of this bitching going on. I can practically taste all of the whine in the air, which is a shame given our current lack of cheese to go with it."

"If you can't sleep through bickering of this caliber then you joined the wrong fucking band, man, because it gets much, MUCH worse." States the rat seated next to Neil, Steven, our trombone player and resident noncombatant whenever it comes to our mindless shenanigans. "This is what they do, 24/7, as often as they can, all the time, forever and ever, until anything along the lines of 'Ragnarok', 'Armageddon', 'The Quickening', 'The Big Crunch', 'The Fall', or 'The Rapture' happens. I mostly just watch from a safe vantage point and silently place bets on who's going to cry first."

Smiling wide, Nick questions, "Who's the safest bet in that particular category?"

"Well, despite all of the mainstream stereotypes, Dizzy's not really much of a sissy, so you can count him out of the equation." Drawls Steven lazily, folding his pink paws behind his head and coiling his tail around one leg as he reclines. "He's more of an instigator than a victim. Next up we've got Matt; he just gets angry and yells during their circus acts, making him closer to a brain aneurysm than a sluice of tears. Eddy gets pretty close to throwing a tantrum but always finds a way to escape once the argument's focus eases up on him. I don't think Jerry even cares about what any of the others say, though he still finds it necessary to throw in his two cents anyway. Soooooo, I guess if I absolutely had to grant one of them the title of 'World's Biggest Crybaby, Bitch', it'd be Neil, especially if Dizzy unleashes what he likes to call 'The Gay' on him. Yes, The Gay is strong with that one."

"Yeah it is." Scoffs Neil. "It's completely unfair; you're not supposed to use your orientation like a weapon."

Grinning from ear to ear, I smirk, "Not my fault you're a 'phobe."

"Hey, I'm not, I just don't want your fukkin' paw down my pants!" Protests the wildcat in a hurt tone. "Isn't it enough that we made out once?"

"Nope, Spin the Bottle doesn't count." I reply with a wink. "I'm not an idiot, I know you were aiming for one of those cheerleaders."

Shaking his head, Neil melodramatically sighs, "But I stepped on a gay landmine instead."

"Give me a chance, sugar, I'll explode all over you."

"I'd much prefer avoiding your blast radius, thank you."

"You'll have to run fast then, I tend to cause a lot of collateral damage."

"Hmmm. Well, there's a mental image that I can't ever un-imagine."

"Do I have to come back there and separate you two? Don't make me get the hose." States Matt with a tired roll of his eyes. "Also, we're here. Just thought I'd alert the masses."

"Awww, I don't wanna carry shit; I'm having so much fun torturing the breeder." I laugh, sticking my tongue out at Neil.

The lop-eared rabbit behind me sits back up and chides, "Careful, Queen, the rest of us are 'breeders' too."

Which may or may not be true; I'm still convinced that Nick is a closet case.

"Maybe so, but he's the only one who gets pissed about it." I retort, forking my thumb in the sensitive feline's general direction.

"To quote Neil from a few minutes earlier, 'this is true'." Eddy chuckles.

With a forced and playful frown, Neil verbally assails us, "You're all bastards, every single one of you. Especially Nick."

"What the fuck?" Objects the bunny, throwing his paws up into the air.

"No one attacked you yet." Amends the cat. "Had to happen."

"Alright, alright, everyone shut the Hell up and get the Hell out; it's chicken time." Matt groans, opening his door and trudging out into the daylight.

"Oh boy, deep fried grease with a hint of chicken." Mutters Eddy as we all file out behind our valiant leader. "I'll try to contain myself."

And this is pretty much what you could call an ordinary day for us. My name, if the nickname "Dizzy" doesn't describe me well enough for you, is Adrian Izzy Conrad, and no I did not make that shit up. Blame my parents, alright? It's not my fault that they decided to name me by throwing a bunch of random words on a roulette and spinning it three times. I'm guessing that they didn't bother crossing their fingers for something generally normal and/or not from Rocky. But back to me; I'm a skunk from Rhode Island with what HAS to be the bushiest tale on the planet. To some, that might sound like a plus, but they're wrong and they won't ever understand how wrong they are until they have to brush something, from top to bottom, five times a day. Seriously, I burn through combs and brushes at the same rate a junkie depletes needles; it's not fun. I'm 19 years old, fresh out of high school, nearly into college, and my hobbies include listening to poorly recorded music, advertising for poorly recorded music, and selling poorly recorded music on badly burnt CDs to under-crowded taverns; don't I sound like the pinnacle of success? Oh yeah, Lookout Records, eat your heart out.

Mathieu Moon, our hunky guitarist and ever irritated driver, is for all intensive purposes my older brother. I've known both him and my eternal rival, Neil Gerrard Sharp, almost my entire life. While Neil might come off as a bit of a jackass at first, and to be honest he really can be, you have to understand that he takes his job very seriously; everyone needs someone to keep them in check and be there to smush their ego like a grape in the event that it over-inflates. THAT is his job; he's the George Washington to my cherry tree, and the other way around as well. He's not really a homophobe, he's just my own personal Gary Oak. In fact, way back in Pallet Town, during our last days in middle school, we started tossing ideas around about putting together a band. Our expectations were so high back then, we were so young and naive and just plain STUPID, how were we to know that we'd end up touring the country in a stuffy, rusty, barely functioning van with four other people, no food, no drinks, a CD player that only works on the night of a blue moon, and nothing but the heat radiated by our burning dreams to warm us? Oh yeah, life is good.

As for the others joining us on this journey back and forth across the North American continent, why don't I introduce them? The falcon with the bottomless yet mysteriously picky stomach is Edward Pennington, our keyboardist and resident idiot; his is an amazingly profound idiocy. 'Nuff said. Nicholas Danial Luck, the sleepy hare of dubious sexual preference, is the band's new bassist and newest member in general. His pastimes include resting, lazing, loafing, sleeping, napping, hibernating, and coma-ing; I'm not sure why, but energy is just something that he can't seem to get a good grip on. Jeremy Bellingham, aside from having an awesome last name, is pretty bland; go ahead and tell him that I said that too. He's our trumpet player, saxophone player whenever he can get his claws on one, and one time only French horn player. Don't ask me when or how we came into possession of a French horn, we just did. Lastly, Steven Francis Zephyr, the albino rat with a serious case of the Mellow Yellows, does double duty as both the band's trombonist and psychiatrist. If it weren't for him, we'd all have probably committed suicide or murdered each other in a genocidal frenzy a long, LONG time ago. Eddy would have been the first to go. Yeah, definitely Eddy.

"You're killing me in your head again, aren't you?" Questions the bird as he scowls down at his food.

"Na." I retort. "Now shut up and eat your grease."

"I'll accept your lie." Grumbles Eddy in between pecks at a drumstick. "But this breaded gristle is completely unacceptable. Trust me, I know food; this isn't food."

With some false sincerity, I comment, "Thank you oh so much for your forgiveness, good sir."

"Yeah, yeah, mock me in my time of need."

"What else do you expect me to do with my down time?"

"Torture Neil instead, dur."

"Can't. He's in the bathroom."

Let it be known that I am an opportunist when it comes to picking my battles. I'll pretty much take whatever looks funnest at the time and hungry boy here is ALWAYS an easy target.

"Alright, does everyone have their noms?" Inquires Matt gruffly, through a muzzleful of corn and mashed potatoes. "Because if so, shovel it down quick so we can go and unload the van; we've got a half-filled bar to disappoint, let's go!"

With a grin, Jeremy replies, "Aight, dawg."

"Word." Adds Steven, his grin much more subtle.

And with that, we all evacuate the restaurant and j-walk across the street. In seconds, we're already at the van; in a few more, we're popping open the back and excavating our artifacts out of their dusty tomb. Even with the seven of us putting forth our worst effort, what with manual labor evoking unusually high levels of lethargy in us, it still only takes a couple of minutes to chauffeur all of our things from Point A to Point B.

"So, Matt, did you ever figure out whether or not This Is My Suitcase is playing before us or if we're playing before them?" I ask, setting down the bass amp and crossing my arms.

"Not yet." Matt admits, folding back his ears. "This show was thrown together pretty spur of the moment; we're lucky we were asked to perform at all, really. Why?"

"Because we CAN'T go on after them, we just can't."

"Huh, why?"

"Dude, you've seen them, they're fucking awesome; they throw confetti, balloons, and streamers everywhere, put up Christmas lights, blow bubbles during their set, and just kick ass in general. We WILL die if we go on after them."

"Hmmm. You're right, I haven't performed with them before but I have seen them several times; they are ridiculously good."

"...And?"

"Dunno. I guess we just hope for the best. Besides, even if they blow us out of the water by performing first, at least we'll get to watch them and not worry about trying to impress anybody later."

"That makes sense." Smirks Nick, the bass case in one paw and a guitar case clutched in the other. "After all, if we know that we can't meet the standards of the bands that came before us, why try to rise to the occasion and do our best anyway? Just give up and give in, right?"

Frowning, Matt places his baggage on the floor and sighs, "C'mon, I was kidding, we're not going to bomb on purpose; we're going to bomb totally by accident after giving this shit our all."

"Better." States Steven with a smile. "A vast majority of the battle is summoning the will needed to fight it."

"Whatever, Voltaire, let's just try not to suck and try not to get bummed out in the event that we do suck." Remarks Jeremy hoarsely as he struggles to hold up the huge Marshal amp in the doorway that we're blocking. "Now could you get out of my way so I can put this damn thing down? It's big and heavy and I'm small and weak; not a good combination."

After a few more minutes and a couple of words with the owner, Fred, we find out that The Buster League is playing first and that we're playing second. Then, immediately following us, are All Alliteration Aside, The Frankl Project, Defiance, Ohio, and This Is My Suitcase. A damn good lineup. With all of that to look forward to, we get all of our equipment organized and in a more manageable... uh... heap, browse the other merch tables for t-shirts and CDs that we can't afford, and then turn to face the stage as The Buster League finishes setting up. Among the songs that they end up playing are "Coming Soon", their featured song on the United Nati Front Compilation album, and "A Million, Maybe Two", their most played myspace song. They're a crowd favorite at a lot of the local shows within the Tri-State area and it's pretty obvious by how well the audience reacts; a lot of movement and plenty of applause. They play some four or five songs, though I availed myself to the restroom during one of them, and continue to warm up the crowd even as they start to disassemble their set and pack up their gear.

And that's our cue.

"Saddle up, boys and Dizzy, it's show time." Announces Neil as he hops up onto the stage with his bass drum between his paws.

Attaching the slide to his trombone, Steven nods his head and adds, "Let's put on a show for the record books."

Or at least TRY, right? Yeah, that's pretty much our aim, to give it one helluva try. So, with those words in mind, I help set up all of the equipment and evacuate the stage once the band's ready to perform. By the time Matt introduces himself and everyone else as The Homeless Millionaires, I'm already at the opposite end of the room, comfortably seated on top of an overturned bucket behind our trustworthy folding table and the huge pile of unsellable stuff strewn haphazardly about atop it. The first song, "In The Footsteps Of Bozo Texino", goes over well enough, though it's the next one, "Freedom Lika Shopping Cart", a NOFX cover, that really grabs everyone's attention. And now that the crowd's interest has been piqued and the band is more than just background ambiance to them, both "Graffiti Is The Artist's Last Great Frontier" and "The King Of The Hobos" receive ample amounts of applause; clapping, hooting, hollering, skanking, and random shouts of "Fuck yeah!" all included. Leave it to a NOFX song to save the day. However, it's the last song, "The Electric Company Can't Shut Off My Sunlight", that REALLY takes the cake; almost everyone in the building stands and cheers in one way or another after the final chord is strummed. Given the fact that I'm throwing my fist in the air and clapping like a lunatic the ENTIRE time regardless, it's still difficult not to smile from ear to ear knowing that my friends were well received by everyone this time around and not just their accomplice/roadie.

"We've got one more and then we're done, I promise!" Exclaims Matt just before he guzzles a generic, unlabeled bottle of water.

Raising one eyebrow, I quietly mutter to myself, "One more?"

"This last song's another cover song." States the fluffy mutt as he unplugs his guitar and brings out its replacement, an Epiphone acoustic. "I've only played it two or three times, so cut me some slack if I fuck it up, alright? It's by another Matt, Matt Wixson, and it's about a certain kind of inequality. In fact, our photographer and merch guy wrote a college paper all about it, quoting this song even, and that's why he's gonna be the one to sing it."

From across the room, I stand and shout, "Say what?!"

"You heard me, asshole, now get your tail up here." Says the collie with a too-large grin.

Hopping up onto the small stage, I smirk, "You're lucky I know the lyrics to this one."

"Pfft, you're the one who's lucky; lucky he chose a song that you're even the slightest bit familiar with." Laughs Neil from behind his drum kit.

"At least I'm not the drummer." I retort, giving the mean kitty the middle finger of justice. "Hell, I'M almost more of a musician and all I have to do is snap pictures and convince people to buy shit."

Twirling a stick in one paw, Neil puffs out his chest and postures, "Why don't you come over here and say that to my face?"

"'Cuz I don't want to eat a high hat." I reply.

With all of the egotism in the world, the mountain lion smiles and states, "You're damn right you don't."

"Anyway, this one's called 'Uncivil Union'!" Trumpets Matt, cutting our argument short as he tosses a microphone at my head, scowls at the two of us, and then strums an E chord.

"Different names for different laws

I think we tried that once

Do you remember Jim Crow

Wasn't all that long ago

Different names for different folks

Punishment for different strokes

We're one way so we get this

You're like that so you get shit

We owe you nothing

So be thankful for it

Deserve rights just like the rest

So why settle for less?

Separation never fair

No matter how they compare

Sanctity don't mean a thing

It's just a goddamn ring

It's the privileges that count

Would you say with your own mouth?

We'll stay in,

And everyone else can stay out

It doesn't seem legal

This treatment of people

The liberal side is saying

Separate but equal

You know there's certain rights

That soon won't be applied

We're only 3 to 5 percent of voters

So why try?"

"Thank you, everyone, we're The Homeless Millionaires and we are fucking done!" Shouts Matt, turning and motioning towards the rest of the band. "Stick around for All Alliteration Aside, The Frankl Project, Defiance, Ohio, and This Is My Suitcase; they're all awesome and they're all in dire need of funds, so be sure to check out their merch tables too!"

Hopping down from the stage, I take a look around and smile as five or six people immediately crowd around my makeshift shop on the other side of the room. Dashing back over to my bucket, I take a seat and put on my game face; time to sell some 50 cent pins, two dollar CDs, and five dollar shirts. If I'm REALLY lucky, I'll sell one of each.

"Nice voice you've got there." Says a young snow leopard in cargo pants and a blue Ben Folds shirt. In his left paw are one of our CDs; on his face is a coy smile. "Do you normally sing or was this a one-time thing?"

"Haha, no, I just sell shwag and take blurry, unfocused photos of the band while they perform." I laugh.

Raising one eyebrow, the alabaster cat purrs, "That's a shame, I was hoping to hear more."

"More, huh?" I muse, locking eyes with him. "I dunno, my throat's a bit dry."

Hooking a thumb towards the bar, the snowkitty states, "Then it sounds like you could use a drink."

"I certainly could." I answer with a cheeky grin. "You buyin', stranger?"

"The name's Zak Viktory and yes I am."

"Then you should know, Zak, that I tend to get a bit frisky after a few."

"Really now? Well, I don't think that there's much cause for concern. Besides, after a couple of shots I might just get a little fresh myself."

"I can only hope."

Looks like I won't be selling many shirts or stickers tonight. Heh, I just hope the van's unlocked.

The End

...

Or not! There's more!

Thank you for reading, everyone who read, and I hope you keep reading all of my random stories for many (insert long stretch of time here) to come! I'd like to take this opportunity to mention that the Mad Hatter is real and has hosted many awesome bands. It is indeed located in Covington, Kentucky, right across the river from Cincinnati, and I've gone there to see shows too many times to count now. I know it's unlikely that there are many other furs close enough to support the Northern Kentucky/Southern Ohio punk/alternative scene, but if you'd like to (or if you'd just like to know what I've been droning on and on about X3), here's a link to the Mad Hatter's page as well as a few other related pages:

0) The Mad Hatter - http://www.madhatterclub.com/

1) Atomic Potato - http://www.myspace.com/atomicpotato

2) The Best Revenge - http://www.myspace.com/bestrevengemusic

3) Fizzgig - http://www.myspace.com/fizzgig

4) Big D And The Kids Table - http://www.myspace.com/bigdandthekidstable , http://www.bigdandthekidstable.com/

5) Bomb The Music Industry - http://www.myspace.com/bombthemusicindustry , http://bombthemusicindustry.tumblr.com/

6) The Arrogant Sons Of Bitches - http://www.myspace.com/arrogantsonsofbitches

7) Mustard Plug - http://www.mustardplug.com/

8) The Pinstripes - http://www.myspace.com/thepinstripes

9) Deals Gone Bad - http://www.myspace.com/dealsgonebad

10) Star Fucking Hipsters - http://starfuckinghipsters.com/

11) The Buster League - http://www.myspace.com/thebusterleague